Tuesday, May 31, 2005

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When I hear the word bodega or even think of one, I see this image. It is a container for all my experiences with or within the crowded and minimal shops. For me, the two are synonymous. One is the other.

call me crazy, but i think tylenol might be advertising to this community in hopes that they buy large quantities of their acetaminophen to perform suicide with.

seriously, right? kill two birds with one stone.

first, make a decent amount of money when the youth you are targeting buy 2-300 of your pills to try to kill themselves. its especially effective marketing when the kids who dont win the prize realize that not only have they lost the contest, but now they have no health insurance - basically rubbing it in that these kids live in a society with no social protection, support for the arts, or healthcare.

the capitalists in the room might now be jumping up and down saying, "why would any self respecting company try to kill their customers? it reduces future earning potential!"

hah! i say, i havent made my second point ----

----getting a few of these "liberal artist brat commies" who may one day vote democratic, or god forbid protest for health rights, to kill themselves only goes to further the strength of the already disgustingly stong drug lobby. destroy the opposition and make a buck! BRILLIANT!

Like many peripherally associated with the kids featured in the article, I have heard various incomplete accounts of the events that unfolded that night at 31 Grand, just a month or so after I had arrived on these islands. I remember following those rumors closely, studying their characters and connections; naively trying to determine how the young art world functioned, how ambition manifested itself, in my new home. So, while I will fully admit that my desire to finally understand what actually happened easily carried me through the piece, I should also mention that I feel the story does young artists making work in New York City a huge disservice. Kurutz's article continues to traffic in the kinds of stereotypes that fracture an already overly competitive community. To the great majority of artists, the scene is secondary. It's the Art, not the antics, that keep us in the game.

Additionally, I take offense at the Times' choice to censor Michelle Cortez's self-portrait, by obscuring her breasts with the image of Simon Curtis. This artwork is absolutely central to the story, as is the content of this particular artwork. To modify this work (in a transparent attempt to placate some of the Times' readership) is to withhold necessary information from very same readership. This is not a pornographic image, nor is it misogynist, and I see little rational ground for censorship. Personally, I find the violation of an artwork far more offensive than any portrayal of the female anatomy.

Did anyone else react the same way upon flipping to the City section in the Sunday sun?

you're frustrated by the censorship itself, but what about the form that censorship takes? his body imposed on hers? more specifically, his face on her breasts? the visual language of these two photographs constitutes the misogyny here, i'd say.

Friday, May 20, 2005

Over the years, I've probably written a dozen columns about how to predict the future. The process is pretty simple, really. Just look for a logical vector from the past to the present, then use a bit of English to predict a second vector from the present to the future, because there is always a kink precisely at the point we call "today." Recalculate occasionally so the vector turns into a curve and converges on some date you've chosen in the future. What makes predicting the future easier than creating it is that only observation and thought are required, and that vector is the sum of all forces, seen and unseen. Creating the future, in contrast, requires lots of work, and all the forces generally have to be summoned or at least enticed by the creators, which makes it a combination of engineering, marketing and voodoo. Unseen forces, rather than being automatically integrated, are what kill you.

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

This evening Rhizome.org is hosting the second Blogging and the Arts panel discussion at the New Museum of Contemporary Art. I'm not usually one for talks, but I think it'd be a little wrong to miss this. Blogs have the potential to radically change the fine arts community, just as they have the worlds of journalism and politics; I'm glad to finally see artists and the institutions that support them embracing (or at least acknowledging) the form. Here's the press release:

Rhizome.org Director of Technology Francis Hwang will lead a panel discussion on Blogging and the Arts. This panel, the second in a series hosted by Rhizome.org, includes painter and web-artist Chris Ashley, painter Joy Garnett, artist and programmer Patrick May, and writer Liza Sabater. The discussion will address issues such as ways that artists are using blogs to distribute their own work, and the influence of blogging culture on political issues of interest to those in the arts.

Founded in 1996, Rhizome.org is an internet-based platform for the global new media arts community. Through programs such as publications, online discussion, art commissions, and archiving, it supports the creation, presentation, discussion, and preservation of contemporary art using new technologies. Since 2003, Rhizome.org has been affiliated with the New Museum of Contemporary Art.

The bus was packed, stuffed far past code, the windows perspiring. Heather and I had slid the window open next to our coveted seats, preferring the cold drizzle of that Saturday to the steam seeping from the other straphangers. Through that fresh 3-inch break in the damp glass, we watched our new neighborhood fade into our old one, noting the progress of gentrification; that Montrose is the new Lorimer, Dekalb the new Montrose, us the new Morgan.

Through that break in the damp glass, I saw the second of these tags (the only other piece by Christian Paine I had seen longer than his name) and desperately attempted to note the intersection, knowing that I could never have photographed it through the condensation and rain.

I was unable to record the actual location, but felt that I could find it again, drawing a red line on the map in my head. I attempted one morning when I awoke an hour early, exiting the train prematurely and wandering around the area between Jefferson and Morgan; an area I should know better by now than I do. The search was fruitless, and as I grew later for work, I abandoned my quest for that day's content.

As it turns out, it was a dry run for this morning's stroll through the industrial quarter. Armed with reconnaissance from Heather's ride yesterday along the same detour on the same crowded shuttle, I was able to find the piece in question; just 2 blocks past the perimeter I had stumbled towards the first time around.

Sometimes when your cell rings you don't feel like answering it. You hit Cancel and let it go to voicemail. Then you wait for the voicemail icon to show up, at which point you hold down the 1 until it dials your voicemail. Then you enter your 4-digit password. Then you listen to some robot. Then you hear what the person who called 5 minutes ago had to say.

Why can't it work like this:

Someone calls, you don't want to talk to them, so you hit a button on your cell to activate a Live Voicemail feature. Your cell goes into Speaker Mode, and you begin to hear your recorded greeting. You then hear, live, the caller as they leave their message. It would be just like an answering machine, and just like an answering machine you'd have the option to hit the Call button and interupt their message to begin a conversation.

The present voicemail system would remain intact, with Live Voicemail a new add-on feature that the cellular carriers could dangle in front of customers, an extra $4.99 a month. With mobile phones becoming commodities, the carriers are always desperate for new gimmicks. Why haven't they come up with this?

merkley's solution is elegant; my luck it's a mesage I don't want to respond to immediately but has an important number in it that I can't conveniently commit to memory or paper! i guess that's why he wished us luck.

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

I often wonder why I'm fascinated by certain things; why certain images, ideas inhabit my thoughts for months, years. Take my Mirror series for example, I've made half-a-dozen posts in as many months, motivated by their refraction.

Is it because they depict the division between you and I?Is it because they depict the distance between you and I?Is it because they veil my identity?Is it because they conflate my gaze and the camera's?Is it because they represent a literal plane between public and private?Is it because they are both a literal and figurative reflection?Is it because they make me a ghost?Is it because they make me a shadow?Is it because they make me disappear?Is it because they make me invisible?Is it because they're about what I observe not who I am?Is it because they strike a balance between the external and the internal?Is it because they're about the glass we live our lives behind?Is it because they're portals?Is it because they're black holes?Is it because they capture outerspace?Is it because they capture innerspace?Is it because they graft my camera to my head?Is it because they filter me?Is it because they filter you?Is it because they cloud the issue?Is it because they're self-portraits?Is it because they're layeredIs it because they allow me to bounce my gaze off the glass, through my camera, through the web and onto you?

Magic mirror Leon RussellStanding by the highway suitcase by my side No place I want to go, I just thought I'd catch a ride Many people look my way and many pass me by In moments of reflection, I wonder why To the thieves I am a bandit, the mothers think I'm a son To the preachers I'm a sinner, Lord, I'm not the only one To the sad ones I'm unhappy, the losers think I'm a fool To the students I'm a teacher, with the teachers I'm in school To the hobos I'm imprisoned, by everything I own To the soldiers I'm just someone else who's dying to go home The general sees a number. A politician's tool.To my friends I'm just an equal in this whirlpool Magic Mirror Won't you tell me, please Do I find myself in anyone I see Magic Mirror If we only could Try to see ourselves as others would To policemen I'm suspicious, it's in the way I look I'm just another character to fingerprint and book To the censor I'm pornography with no redeeming grace To the hooker, I'm a customer without a face And the sellers think I'm merchandise, they'll have for a song The left ones think I'm right. The right ones think I'm wrong. And many people come my way, and many pass me by In my quiet reflection I wonder why Magic Mirror Won't you tell me, please Do I find myself in anyone I see Magic Mirror if we only could Try to see ourselves as others would.

Two of my most loved possessions: Miniature oil paintings of cloudy days on magnet-backed MDF by Andrew Mastriani.

He gave one or two to each of the students in Claudia Matzko's thesis; many more to friends I'm sure; all similar in tone, both visual and emotional. They've lived now on my fridges and studio doors, places I only summered and above my desk at various jobs. They live now, on the verso of our front door; something I look at on the way out everyday. A reminder of my art school days; a reminder of the paintings I wish I had bought at student prices; a reminder of the talent I conspired with; a reminder that sometimes it's the small pieces, the easy ones, that most naturally inhabit the word Art.

I still have two miniature paintings by Steve Keene that were part of a show we did at H. Lewis about a thousand years ago (it seems). They, too, have followed me to so many apartments and now reside along the floor boards of my bathroom floor-for the moment, at least.

Nice! I remember opening up the gallery for he and his wife, who were two of the best artists we worked with. They were entirely low-pro, dropping down in a rented moving truck packed to the gills with those huge plaid, plastic shopping bags from Chinatown filled with paintings. Ahhh...MICA memories!

I spent the greater part of Saturday assisting Aaron in his latest charitable project. His program is auctioning student artwork to prosperous alumni, and as one of the more creative class members he felt he should produce something. He arranged to photograph Dr. Eric Kandel (a legend and elder at P&S) and then draft a portrait.

Initially he envisioned a sparse and technical line drawing, so he requested a crash course in Illustrator with which he rendered a charming (yet spooky) approximation of Kandel's face. We then printed, tiled and layered it under a piece of BFK on my light table (also our kitchen island), and he began to draw. I hovered, offering foundation year pointers while he discovered that the drawing didn't want to be simple.

Hours later, Aaron had built up some healthy tone, and erased it back towards a delicate and accurate portrait. It was good, and I was proud. He should be too; after a few more hours of work he will have something worth a bid.

They are...and, you'll be happy to know, your sister is enjoying them too (you know she can't walk past fresh flowers without taking some). She filled a little cup that fits nicely in her car cup holder.

I was trying to explain to a friend the other day, the nuances of my relationship with my stats; that I try to always remember that it's not about the number of eyes seeing my work, but rather the quality of eyes; that one real artist, one real critic, one real peer will always outweigh the armies of invisibles.

Thursday, May 05, 2005

The lock on the door to the private portion of the office men's room is broken. It's one of those push-button locks, embedded in the handle. Sometimes it clicks and sticks, other times it springs back, silently failing to engage.

I'd say that on average the lock functions one out of every 30 times I attempt. I know these odds, and yet I try it each and every time I enter, hoping that this time around I'll be protected from intruders that never knock. This morning it worked, and satisfyingly stuck; I can't help but think that a day of good fortune will follow.

You're the one who should run. He did much of his work training pigeons to...

...guide air-dropped munitions to their targets (so, watch out for my swarm of pigeon-brained smart bombs!).

The principle worked ridiculously well. In fact, the Coast Guard now uses pigeons mounted in bubbles under helicopters to help identify people lost as sea. The pigeons' ability to visually discriminate amongst crowded fields (like the frothy Atlantic) FAR exceeds our own.

Skinner also dabbled in brain washing and utopianism. Interesting chap.

Sunday, May 01, 2005

My contribution to Flickr'sA Day In The Life Image Pool. The idea behind the DILO Group, is that on a predetermined day (regularly a solstice or equinox, but in this case May 1st), all of the members (about 1700) document their day photographically and then post their 5 best images to the image pool, essentially creating a global, multi-faceted, shared memory of the day.